Tuesday, May 03, 2005


I am so manipulated and so ruthlessly clear in my being that I find I am a citizen of the world. Franz Kafka and I were drinking absinthe in Paris because we couldn’t find a nightclub on the Lower East Side where it was legal. It used to not matter what was legal in that neighborhood. I remember going there and copping heroin. The lines of people outside the faux grocery stores and the faux Laundromats were patrolled by cops on the take. You could get a junky escort past Avenue B. No tip was required because he got paid by the drug dealer.

Sex sells. There’s nothing to buy. Every illusion that threatens to take us out of this boredom is a lie. We lie to ourselves about our deaths. I was drinking margaritas last night in a Mexican restaurant, pretending I was never going to die. I got so drunk, I missed my train, fell asleep in Penn Station. I woke up when they announced.

There’s no poetry. I used to think poetry would save me from these lies, all this sex that stays in my head. Instead I’ve sold myself as I sit around bored and hoping there’s some kind of entertainment. I have always felt that way: watching Dead End kids or Bugs Bunny when I was young. Now I can’t even meditate or exercise. I’m depressed and the funny part is that being depressed makes sense.


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